


Blood Moon

by dustnhalos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Blood and Injury, Crossover, Established Relationship, Fist Fights, Fluff, Gun Violence, Knife Violence, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Poisoning, Torture, and the perpetrator gets his very violently, nothing graphic, uh, very brief mention of rape, violence warnings include
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:56:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27945659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustnhalos/pseuds/dustnhalos
Summary: Newton Pulsifer's just started his new job tending bar at the Continental Hotel in central London.  Of course heknewcoming in that most of his clientele would be killers, but he hadn't expected to see England's two most notorious assassins grace the premises on his very first night.Aziraphale and Crowley? Well, they're just looking for a bit of rest between jobs. It's not their fault that everyone and their mother seems keen on taking them out.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Sergeant Shadwell/Madame Tracy (Good Omens), and very very briefly
Comments: 34
Kudos: 98





	Blood Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! 
> 
> This is a short drabble I wrote in the midst of working on my first long-form fic. I'm primarily an artist; I've written fic here and there for a few years, but it's my very first posting to AO3, and I'm thrilled to be here!

The year was 1957, and it was a night for heavy rain. 

Newton Pulsifer had just punched his timecard for his very first shift at the Continental Hotel in central London. He’d been hired on to tend bar, after an unsuccessful attempt at joining the team of switchboard operators in the Administrative Office. This mainly had to do with the fact that when he’d visited the office for his interview, the test board he’d been asked to demonstrate his skills on had sparked and sputtered to an untimely demise. The concierge, an eccentric man who called himself Sergeant Shadwell, had not been pleased, though it seemed he’d taken pity on Newt’s otherwise obedient manner by offering him the bar position instead.

Perhaps it was for the best. He’d not seen a single man in the Administrative Office, and all of the women working in there looked like they were capable of eating Newt alive, with their beautiful yet severe updos and perfectly sharp eyeliner, many of them sporting sprawling tattoos exposed by their sleeveless pink uniform blouses. 

So here he was. The bar and lounge in the Hotel was comfortable-- styled in dark mahogany furniture and warm reds, with low lighting for a luxurious yet discreet mood. Tables and plush chairs peppered the carpeted customer area beyond the bar, truncated by a long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

Newt had arrived early, busying himself with wiping down various surfaces behind the bar counter while waiting for the head bartender, an older woman by the name of Madame Tracy (Newt didn’t know or care whether this was her real name: he might be meek, but he wasn’t an idiot-- he had sense enough to keep his head down about the people and things that happened at this particular hotel) to arrive. She seemed nice enough, introducing herself with a painted smile and a handshake via crimson-tipped fingers. She took him through the motions, explaining his duties and pointing out where everything was behind the bar before looking out into the lounge proper.

“Oh, would you look at that,” Tracy said, diverting Newt’s attention from the shelves of premium liquor bottles lined up along the back wall. “What a stroke of luck, dearie, for those two to show up on your first night.”

“Those...two?” Newt asked, nervously.

“Look there, along the far window-- that’s it, but a tad more discreetly, we don’t want to attract his attention, not just yet-- 

There was a man standing in front of the tall floor-to-ceiling windows with his hands in his pockets, peering out into the pouring rain of the London night, the orange glow of street lamps from outside bouncing off of his thin silhouette. He was tall, around the same height as Newt but several stone leaner, but for every way Newt’s overall person expressed mild-mannered and polite, this man screamed danger. 

He had short, dark hair, just barely visible as a striking auburn in the dim mood lighting of the lounge, neatly combed and gelled back under a black wool gambler hat, the brim tilted at a rebelliously rakish angle low across his forehead. He had good cheekbones and a slightly-crooked nose, his features sharp and defined and skin alabaster pale against an ink-black dress shirt and extremely slim-cut trousers. The telltale glint of an ostentatious pair of snakeskin leather dress boots and some black braces rounded out the ensemble. The man’s eyes were obscured by a pair of dark tortoiseshell-framed glasses despite the late hour, bottomless round mirrors that reflected every pinprick of light from outside the window. Newt watched as the man shrugged off his velvet suit jacket, draping it over the back of the nearby chair before resuming his position at the window, carefully rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he went. An expensive-looking watch was wrapped around his slender wrist.

“That’s Mr. Crowley,” Tracy whispered to Newt. “One of the Continental’s most feared assassins. I wouldn’t underestimate his lean figure, he’s every bit as dangerous as he looks. Crack shot with a firearm but his real game is poisons. Arsenic, deadly nightshade, even snake venom-- anything you can imagine, Mr. Crowley’s used it to kill. Most of his targets never even know they’re marked before he has them at death’s door.”

Newt shuddered at the thought. Of course he _knew_ coming in that most of his clientele at the Continental would be killers, but there was something... _extra_ , about the ones who were a step above a simple brute with a fist or a handgun. The ones whose names traveled the whole of the criminal underworld, in equal whispers of fear and reverence-- those were the ones to really watch out for. And this Mr. Crowley was most certainly one of them. 

“What about the glasses?” he asked, in a whisper matching Tracy’s.

“No one knows,” she replied, shrugging. “He never takes them off. Characters, all of these elite assassins are. They all have their quirks.”

“Should we serve him?” Newt asked, moving to pick up a cocktail menu. 

Tracy stopped him abruptly, barring his path with a firm arm. “No-- that may be too much for your first night, dear. Serving Mr. Crowley is, ah, how shall I say-- a delicate art.” She saw the look of horror that flashed across Newt’s face, and chuckled. “Don’t worry dear, he won’t hurt you-- no one is permitted to fight here on the hotel grounds, as you know-- it’s just that he has certain...expectations, and meeting them is a carefully learned skill. Look, watch Anathema there.”

Newt watched as one of the more experienced bartenders, a striking young woman by the name of Anathema, strode confidently up to Mr. Crowley with a wine-red sangria, expertly crafted in a cut-crystal tumbler with a garnish of blood orange. She pulled a small black square napkin from her apron and presented both to him with a flourish, which he accepted with a grin that was all teeth. 

“Well done, Anathema,” Newt just barely heard the man say from across the room, his English-accented voice smooth and crisp. “However did you know?” 

“It’s a rainy evening in autumn, sir,” Anathema replied. “And Aziraphale is late.” She gave him a slight bow, before leaving him to his own devices. Mr. Crowley turned back to the window, swirling the sangria lazily in its glass, and smiling in evident satisfaction. 

Newt watched, then turned back to Tracy. “You said ‘those two’ earlier, what did you mean by that?” he asked.

“Ah,” she replied, brightening. “See, Mr. Crowley has a...companion, of sorts. His other half, we like to call it, because one very rarely appears without the other. This isn’t just here at the London Continental, you know. Us head barkeeps, we do like our gossip-- and I have it on good authority that from New York to Shanghai to Johannesburg, Mr. Crowley and Mr. Fell show up together more often than not. I’d bet you a fiver he’ll show soon-- and oh, look at that! Seems I’ve won a fiver.” She smirked. 

Another man had entered the lounge, and was clearly picking his way through the tables in Mr. Crowley’s direction. 

Newt hadn’t exactly had a lot of time to form an imaginary picture of what this Mr. Fell would look like, but if someone had asked him to picture a man who was the complete opposite of Mr. Crowley, the man he was looking at would be it. He was a few inches shorter, with a broad-shouldered stocky build that looked soft and rounded. He stood out in the dark lounge, with his pale skin and shock of wild curls, so platinum blond as to nearly be white. The man was wearing similarly light clothing, in the whitest dress shirt Newt had ever seen and pale beige trousers, with a handsome cream-coloured trench coat over top, the soft cotton waxed to repel the rain. He also sported an awfully outdated beige bowler hat, and carried a tartan-patterned umbrella, glistening with rain drops.

The man’s face looked exceedingly gentle and kind. He said hello to every passing staff member, flashing a bright, genuine smile to them all.

“He doesn’t look very dangerous,” Newt commented to Tracy, brow furrowed in confusion. “A bit like my old secondary English teacher, if I’m honest.”

“Ah, that’s the rub, though-- he was a teacher, at least that’s how the story goes,” Tracy explained, clearly eager to have someone new to dish her tales from the grapevine to. “But something in the poor dear _broke_ over the years, and before anyone knew it, he was here. Madness, disillusionment with the ways of the world, who knows? Regardless of the reason, the name Aziraphale Fell will send fear rippling across any criminal underworld unlucky enough to cross his path.”

“And what’s his method? Does he like poison, too?” Newt asked, curious if maybe that thread was why the two wildly different men had converged as allies.

Tracy looked at him sympathetically. “No, dearie. Mr. Fell is much more hands-on, I’m afraid. I haven’t witnessed it myself thankfully, but the word on the street is that he prefers the, ah, more _intimate_ approach.”

“W-what does that mean? Like...knives?” He tried to imagine the nice-looking man stabbing someone, and came up empty.

“Perhaps,” Tracy nodded, “In one story I heard, he bisected a mark with a sword superheated in the man’s own fireplace. Mr. Fell is much more renowned for being a threat with his bare hands, though. Apparently he used to be a boxer in his younger days, though I’m not sure that fully explains his notoriety for snapping necks.”

Imagining someone like Mr. Fell snapping a person’s neck was somehow even more terrifying to Newt than the prospect of Mr. Crowley poisoning a victim, perhaps because while sharp and intimidating Mr. Crowley very much gave off the impression that he was capable of taking a human life, he couldn’t fathom that level of violence from someone who looked as soft and gentle as Mr. Fell. Perhaps he’d thoroughly misplaced his impression of which of the two would be more accommodating of the concept of mercy. 

In any case, it only made him more keen to watch them from afar. 

Mr. Crowley set his untouched drink down on the little table in between the two chairs and turned to greet the other man, apparently having sensed his approach with nary a word spoken.

“Hello, angel,” Mr. Crowley said, and Newt was surprised to witness not a handshake, but Mr. Crowley taking the other man’s hand and instead pressing a gentle kiss to the back of it. He was surprised even further when Mr. Fell dropped all pretenses and followed it up by gently pulling the other man in by the shirt collar and kissing him on the cheek. 

“That seems like it would invite trouble around these parts,” Newt commented quietly to Tracy as the two men sat down to chat. He noticed Anathema bustle over a short moment later with a French 75 cocktail, the pale liquid garnished with a curl of lemon zest in a delicate long-stemmed glass. Mr. Fell smiled at her even brighter, briefly stopping his conversation to chat with her and give her a gentle pat on the arm. Tracy was right-- Newt didn’t think he’d be able to receive a similar touch without flinching, given the rumors he’d just heard about the man. Anathema looked completely comfortable, smiling back and saying a few words before giving another small bow and taking her leave. Mr. Crowley sat stock still, watching the exchange from behind his dark glasses like a predator would watch its prey.

“Well, you’d think so,” Tracy answered him. “But I suppose no one would dare say a thing, when the consequence is having the two most dangerous men in London on your bad side. There’ve been...rumors, of those foolish enough to cross them.” 

Newt supposed he had to agree with that. 

The two men picked up their respective drinks at the same time, clinking their glasses together. It didn’t escape Newt’s attention that Mr. Crowley hadn’t taken a single sip of his sangria until Mr. Fell had arrived. 

The pair sat in comfortable silence thereafter, evidently pleased enough to just be in each other’s company. After the empty glasses were whisked away, Mr. Crowley pulled a cigarette from a silver case in his jacket pocket, and Mr. Fell a cigar from his own. Mr. Crowley lit both, with an expensive-looking lighter handled expertly between slim fingers, and then the two sat back again, puffing away in silence. 

When they were finished, they stood, Mr. Fell gathering his coat neatly over his arm and Mr. Crowley slinging his loosely over his shoulder, and they left the lounge side-by-side, without another word. Sgt. Shadwell came in a few minutes later, making his way over to the bar.

“How’s yer first night there, boy?” he asked, rapping the counter abruptly with his knuckles. “There painted Jezebel treating ye right?”

“Hush, Sergeant,” Tracy tutted, batting her false eyelashes at the concierge in what was unmistakably an attempt at flirting. “Young Newt’s having a thrilling first night indeed.”

The sergeant raised an eyebrow. “An’ why’s that then?”

“Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley, They convened here for a drink just now, just in time for young Newt’s first shift. Left not five minutes before you walked in”

“Aye, those two,” Shadwell said with a nod of understanding. “Inna fight, they’re lethal. ‘Round each other, they melt. Well,” he said, straightening himself out, “things t’do. Guests cannae take care of themselves, ya ken?” 

After he left, Tracy tugged on Newt’s sleeve. “Come on, dearie. Let’s get you situated and actually making some drinks, now.” 

The rest of his shift? Well, it wasn’t nearly as interesting.

\------------------------------

“D’you think we spooked him?” Crowley asked, head tilted back as he lounged lazily on the red and gold chaise in Aziraphale’s suite, a glass of wine swirling in between his fingers.

“The young lad at the bar?” Aziraphale asked, pouring his own glass of the vintage Chateauneuf-du-Pape he’d had the sommelier, Eric, send up earlier.

“It’s only, you know how Tracy gets with the new ones,” Crowley said, easing off his dark glasses and placing them gently on the side table, his luminous golden eyes now on full display in the privacy of their room. “Tall tales and all that.”

“Well, it’s hardly a fable, the methods you and I are known to apply,” Aziraphale said, eyes twinkling as he came over to settle in on the squashy, winged-back armchair next to Crowley.

Crowley shifted his body to face him, propping his head on his hand as he laid, long-limbed and serpentine, on the long chaise.

“Sure, and I’m never one to shy away from a little notoriety, angel. Got a reputation to maintain and all that. Those barkeeps are a gossipy lot, I tell you. But if there were any point in that game of telephone where truth stretches to fiction, it would be with Tracy.”

Aziraphale frowned. “I suppose I can’t argue with that. I’d hate to scare the young man. Oh, I do hope he doesn’t think we would try to hurt him.” He fretted a little, wringing his hands together before picking up his wine glass again.

“You hope he doesn’t think _you_ would,” Crowley scoffed, pointing a finger at Aziraphale as he knocked back his wine. “My reputation hinges on being intimidating and unapproachable, thanks very much.”

“Of course it does, dear,” Aziraphale said offhandedly as he sipped at his own glass. “I’m certain that’s why you went out of your way to give your last mark an overdose of zolpidem tartrate to have her pass peacefully overnight instead of the new snake venom you told me you were so thrilled to try out.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to give a little old lady a taste of the most potent snake venom in the world!” Crowley sputtered indignantly, baring his teeth.

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, crossing his arms. “It’s just as I said. Sometimes even _you_ can be n--”

Crowley chucked a cushion at Aziraphale, who tutted disapprovingly at it almost causing him to spill his wine. “Shut it. I’m not _nice_. I’m _never_ nice. I’m just saving my preciously meagre inland taipan reserves for someone who _really_ deserves it.”

“Quite right,” Aziraphale huffed. “I’m sure that’s it.” He decided not to bring up the fact that he knew Crowley had also obtained vials of a few other dreadfully excruciating poisons, including dimethylmercury, tetrodotoxin, and that of the Irukandji box jellyfish, but he had yet to use them on any of his recent assignments. 

The last time Crowley had _really_ shown off his flair for the dramatic was almost a year ago, and Aziraphale had actually been present for it-- the target was a fugitive small-time warlord, who’d gone MIA from his post in Myanmar after orchestrating the mass murder and razing of an entire small town, ordering the rape of the women and even the children before violently executing them all in the public square. The local government, desperate to catch the man before he repeated his actions on another village, had put forth a contract at the Continental, which Crowley had accepted.

Crowley had tracked the man down through the jungle, ambushing him and knocking him stone cold unconscious with a single vicious kick to the head. The man had come to in a tiny underground dirt cell, the walls, floor, and ceiling embedded with rows upon rows of razor-sharp protruding needles, and a single rudimentary closed-circuit television camera in the corner. Crowley had dug the cell specifically so that the man could hardly move without sticking himself.

Oh, Aziraphale had to appreciate the wicked beauty of it. He’d been monitoring the camera feed from a nearby surveillance room, and watched as Crowley sauntered into the cell, easy and casually as anything, acting ever so kind as he gave the man a tin cup of water that Aziraphale knew to be laced with strychnine. The man had lapped it up greedily as Crowley stepped back, not knowing that he was about to be in the worst pain of his life. And then the spasms had started, muscle convulsions that increased dramatically in intensity until the man’s backbone was arching in a way no person’s body should. He’d screamed in agony, at both the pain of the toxin and the subsequent wounds he was receiving from the wall of needles as his body bucked uncontrollably, and he could do absolutely nothing about it. Crowley had just stood there, watching the carnage with an utterly innocent grin on his face. It’d taken almost an hour for the man to die. Not long enough, in Aziraphale’s opinion. 

Anyway. That had been an outlier. Crowley, as much as he liked to complain otherwise, was as fine with a classic bullet to the head as many of their fellow compatriots. It certainly took much less effort. A good thing, too, because he hadn’t had that much time to track down every single member of the dead warlord’s group of underlings and systematically and efficiently end each of their lives, lack of contract be damned, before he was due in Moscow for his next job.

It was late, now. As was the unfortunate downside to their line of work, Aziraphale and Crowley couldn’t stay in London long. They had dinner plans tomorrow, but the morning immediately after, they would have to part ways, Aziraphale having accepted a contract in Dakar for the week following, and Crowley off to Reykjavik. 

After polishing off the bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, the two of them headed off to the en suite bathroom, changing into their night clothes and climbing into bed. They were grateful to at least have these moments together, curling into each other’s arms under the silken sheets and falling quickly asleep to the synchronized rise and fall of their breathing.

\------------------------------

Crowley came to in the middle of the night to the sound of bone crunching. He sat up blearily, rubbing the sleep from his eyelids as he trained his ears in the direction of the noise. The bed next to him was conspicuously empty, though the lingering heat of Aziraphale’s body was still faintly present. 

“Crowley, dear,” he heard the man call from the sitting room. “Would you come out here? We’ve got a, ah-- a small problem.”

Crowley sighed. He’d recognize that tone of voice anywhere. Reluctantly, he scooped up his dark glasses from the nightstand and slid them on, before retrieving the custom-engraved Colt 1911 he always kept underneath his pillow when he slept, a silencer already pre-attached to the front of the barrel. 

He emerged to find Aziraphale holding a man up against the wall of the sitting room, his companion’s knuckles and nightshirt splattered with blood that was clearly not his own. The owner of the blood was short and squat, with a wide face, bald head, and bulging eyes. He was dressed in a low-key ensemble of comfortable clothing: a dark blue work shirt underneath a black jacket, loose trousers, and a pair of scuffed work boots. Much of the shirt was splattered with blood. The man was whimpering in pain, and upon closer inspection, it was obvious that his jaw was broken. He also sported a blooming black eye and a steadily bleeding nose that was dripping unceremoniously onto the rich shag carpet. All Aziraphale’s handiwork, no doubt.

“He came in through the balcony,” Aziraphale said as he turned his head towards Crowley, tone calm and casual as if nothing were out of the ordinary. “With that,” he added, pointing to a small revolver lying on the floor nearby.

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Is that so. Spry one, isn’t he.” They were on the third floor, so the man must be more limber than one would expect. 

He was brave, too, because with Aziraphale’s attention diverted, the man suddenly kicked out to try and break free from his captor’s grasp. This was a futile move, though, because Aziraphale merely shot an arm out to stop the motion. He took it a step further, wrapping the man’s ankle between his forearm and bicep and twisting viciously, a resounding crunch echoing through the room as the joint shattered in his steeled grip. The man screamed, a short sound that was cut off into a gurgle by Aziraphale pressing his other hand even tighter against his throat.

Crowley inspected his nails. He needed to cut them soon, he mused. 

“Are you going to be quiet?” Aziraphale asked the man after a few moments. The man nodded frantically, and Aziraphale, deeming this a satisfactory answer, loosened his grip enough for his victim to speak. 

“Who are you?” Aziraphale asked him.

“N-name’s Usher,” the man croaked, voice raspy and haggard from the beating he’d taken.

Aziraphale nodded. “That’s good, Mr. Usher. Now, might I ask who sent you?”

“I-I’m just an envoy. A grunt. Dunno who put out the order,” the man, Usher, choked out.

Aziraphale sighed. “If you’re not going to be useful, I don’t see why we should bother keeping you around.”

Usher whimpered. “I’m telling you the truth! All’s I was told was to climb up here tonight and kill whoever was inside! I don’t know anything else, I swear!”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “What do you think?”

Crowley just shrugged, making a noise of indifference. “Dunno. Wouldn’t be the first time, yeah? For me _or_ for you.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “I suppose,” he said, deep in thought. 

“P-please,” the man begged. “I’m telling the truth, I swear. I don’t know anything else.”

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, sighing. “I believe you.”

The man exhaled in relief, sagging against Aziraphale’s grip. “Thank you,” he breathed out.

“Well, it’s settled, I suppose. Would you like to do the honors then, dear?” Aziraphale asked, turning once again to Crowley.

Usher looked over at Crowley. The man must have finally registered the pistol that Crowley was holding loosely in his right hand, because his brief expression of relief was replaced immediately by wild panic, and he started bucking manically against Aziraphale’s hold. It was no use. 

Crowley looked at the gun in his hand, casually like he was inspecting a freckle. “Eh...it’s the middle of the night. Quiet as anything. People might still hear a gunshot, even with a silencer.” The man’s eyes went as wide as saucers.

“Hmm,” Aziraphale said, deep in thought. “Well...I was planning on saving this for tomorrow evening, when we had our dinner, but...I have a gift prepared for you. It’s in the front pocket of my travel bag, you know, the--”

“The tartan one, yeah, I know,” Crowley said, already turning towards their little pile of luggage next to the door. He unzipped the said front pocket, and pulled out a small leather case. He popped open the clasp to find an array of sleek throwing knives, each one carefully machined to a razor-sharp point from dark, handsome obsidian. There was a thin cutout at the end of each one, the inside of which was painted in a bright scarlet.

“What’s this?” he asked, turning back to Aziraphale with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well, tomorrow’s the five-year mark from the day we first met. I spotted those at a market in Beirut last month, and I thought they suited you ever so well. Look at the shafts, they have a fillable channel, for all your clever poisons.”

And so they did. Slim and discreet, running all the way down to the points. A silent ranged weapon, perfect for Crowley’s preferences. He took one out of its snug velvet slot and weighed it up and down in his hand, testing the balance. Nice and solid.

“I thought you might give it a test run with our friend here,” Aziraphale said lightly, as if suggesting an appetiser at brunch rather than taking a man’s life.

Usher sputtered. “You can’t-- you can’t kill me-- that’s against Continental policy.”

“A bit hypocritical of you to say that, don’t you think?” Crowley drawled, holding the knife out in front of him to inspect it in the light of the overhead lamp, not even looking at the would-be assassin. 

The man resumed his whimpering, tears now streaming down his bloodied cheeks.

“Oh, do stop teasing the lad,” Aziraphale said sympathetically as Usher blubbered under his grip. “Look, he’s shaking.”

“Fine, fine,” Crowley responded, holding up his hands in surrender. Then, lightning-fast like a striking cobra, he flicked his wrist and threw the knife, the thin black blade whistling a ruler-straight path through the air and embedding itself in the wall mere centimetres above the man’s head. He screamed, or he tried to, as Aziraphale reacted in kind and clamped a strong hand over his mouth to cut off the sound.

“Really now,” he said, rolling his eyes at Crowley. “Was that necessary?”

“Well, he’s right,” Crowley said, shrugging. “No killing inside the hotel, that’s the policy. Wouldn’t do for either of us to go excommunicado, y’know.”

“I suppose. So what shall we do with him?”

In response, Crowley stepped forward and leaned in close, the tip of his nose practically touching Usher’s. “You go back to your boss,” he hissed, “or _bosses_ , because we’re not stupid, we know both those wankers Gabriel and Beelzebub must be behind this, and you tell them: _‘We’re on our own side now. Don’t cross us.'_ You got that?’”

The man squeaked and nodded frantically, and Aziraphale relented, unceremoniously releasing his grip and sending the man tumbling into a heap on the floor. He scrambled to get to his feet, wincing at the pain of putting weight on his broken ankle, still cowering backwards at the sight of the two men towering over him.

Aziraphale stepped aside, dusting off his nightshirt. To what avail, Crowley didn’t know, because the blood certainly wouldn’t be coming off without a deep clean, if at all. He made a mental note to put ‘a new nightshirt’ on his list of gifts for their next meeting.

“Off you go now, then,” Aziraphale said to Usher pleasantly. “Back the way you came, if you could. It wouldn’t do to make a scene in front of the hotel staff, now would it?” 

“But-- my leg--” the man complained. “How am I supposed to climb down the balcony with it broken?”

“Perhaps you should have thought of that before you came in, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, patiently as if he were giving a child a slap on the wrist for some minor bout of mischief. “Wouldn’t you agree that us letting you go at all is generous enough?”

“I-- y-yes, sir,” the man sputtered as he limped sideways past them towards the open balcony door, rain and thunder still pounding outside. “Sirs,” he corrected himself. “Thank you, thank you for letting me go-- y-you won’t regret it, I promise!” he cried, groveling a little. Aziraphale and Crowley merely watched, the latter having stuck one hand casually in the pocket of his black silk pajama bottoms.

Usher nodded and sputtered his thanks one final time before turning away. He’d just stepped across the threshold, making to climb over the railing, when Crowley called out to him. 

“One more thing, Mr. Usher?” 

The man turned his head back, confused and a little afraid. 

And Crowley pulled the trigger. 

The bullet sailed quick and true, exploding, albeit with a suppressed pop, from the barrel of his 1911, straight in between Mr. Usher’s eyes. There was barely a moment for the look of shock to register on the man’s face, before his body stumbled backwards, the momentum sending him careening over the railing and down into the ink-black night. There was a brief moment of silence, where all they could hear was the pitter-patter of rain, before the distant splat of the man hitting the pavement rang out. 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Aziraphale muttered.

“What?” Crowley replied, shrugging. “The policy specifically says ‘no killing _inside_ the hotel’. He wasn’t inside.”

“Yes, I think I’ve caught on to the deception, you foul fiend. My suspicions were first aroused when _you_ expressed a desire to follow the rules.”

“Eh, not really,” Crowley said, pushing his glasses up into his hair and rubbing his tired eyes. “I’m sure they could get me on a technicality or something, say the balcony counts as hotel premises or whatever. But either way, I think I could’ve wormed my way out of it as self-defense. He _did_ try to kill us, after all. Or just you, if you wanted to nitpick.”

Aziraphale scoffed, moving over to the kitchenette to rinse off his hands. “Hardly. The dear boy had about as much conviction as a garden slug.”

Crowley stepped up to the wall, yanking his throwing knife out and inspecting the damage to the wallpaper.

“What did you think of it?” Aziraphale asked as he came back, drying off his now-clean hands with a fluffy white towel. His knuckles were a little nicked, but it was hardly noticeable.

“It’s a nice knife,” Crowley replied as he brushed off the tip and slotted it back into its case with the others. “Wasn’t 100% sure on the weight before I threw it, though. If I hadn’t judged correctly, I might’ve accidentally offed him.”

“Hm, well. I suppose we could have thrown him off the balcony ourselves if it came to that,” Aziraphale grinned, wrapping his arms around Crowley.

Crowley laughed. “Always the pragmatist, angel. Thanks for these. Should make for some good fun on future assignments.”

Aziraphale smiled, leaning his head on the other man’s shoulder before breaking off again. “I’m glad. Now, if you’ll excuse me-- I rather think I should clean up this mess.” He put his hands on his hips and looked at the mess of blood underneath the spot where he’d been holding Usher up against the wall.

“What?” Crowley complained, petulant. “Forget that and come back to bed. We can take care of it in the morning.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m afraid of the blood seeping too far down into the carpet. I don’t want to trouble the staff with it, the poor dears already have so much work to do.”

Always being considerate. Classic Aziraphale.

“Fine,” Crowley grumbled. “But hurry up. We already don’t have too much time before dawn.”

“Don’t you worry, dear,” Aziraphale replied, already rolling up his sleeves. “I’ll be back to bed in two shakes of a lamb’s tail!”

Crowley merely waved a hand at him dismissively and slunk back into the bedroom, leaving the door open just a crack. 

\------------------------------

Mr. Crowley swept back into the lounge the next day, just as Newt was clocking in for his second-ever shift. He was dressed a tad more resplendently than he’d been the previous night, in a dark, high-collared burgundy overcoat over a black three-piece suit, the waistcoat and tie both embroidered in a dramatic jacquard. The ensemble was accompanied by the same dark glasses, gambler hat, and boots from the day before, today with the addition of a pair of snakeskin gloves.

“Mr. Crowley,” Tracy greeted him cheerfully. “How goes it?” 

He reached over to take her hand, pressing a kiss to the back that made her blush. 

“It’s a special night,” he said with a lopsided smile. “Aziraphale and I are off to dinner at the Ritz before we have to part ways for assignments tomorrow.”

“Oh, how wonderful! I expect you’ll be back afterwards for a nightcap?” she said with a wink. Newt’s eyes widened next to her.

“You know us so well. And I’d like _you_ ,” he said insouciantly, pointing at Newt with a gloved finger, “to serve us, when we do.”

Newt panicked. “M-me?” he squeaked, pointing at himself with no small amount of confusion.

“That’s right. Fresh blood and all.” Mr. Crowley grinned, predator-like.

“Oh, stop scaring the boy,” a voice piped up behind him. It was Mr. Fell, a vision dressed all in white, the stark creams and ivories of his tuxedo underneath a beige overcoat painting the contrast between him and Mr. Crowley into sharp relief. “Don’t mind him,” he said to Newt kindly. “He’s a dastardly fiend. I’m Aziraphale Fell; you’re more than welcome to just call me Aziraphale.” He held a hand out, which Newt shook with no small amount of apprehension. But Aziraphale’s hand was soft and gentle, and betrayed none of the violence he knew it to be capable of.

When it was over, Aziraphale elbowed Mr. Crowley in the ribs, eliciting a yelp from the taller man. He grumbled, before finally holding out his own hand to Newt. “Anthony J. Crowley. Just call me Crowley. Only Tracy’s stubborn enough to keep on with the Mister business.”

Newt shook it. In contrast to Aziraphale’s, Mr. Crowley-- Crowley’s, hand was bony, sharp-edged and firm even through the leather of his glove. 

“I-it’s nice to meet you, Aziraphale...and, and Crowley.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you as well, young Newt,” Aziraphale said, smiling pleasantly. “We’d best be off now, but we’ll be back later for that nightcap! Come now, dear.” He pulled gently at his companion’s sleeve, and Crowley obediently moved to follow him out. 

When they disappeared through the doorway, Newt turned to Madame Tracy. “How...how did they know my name? I don’t think I said?”

Tracy just looked at him sympathetically. “Oh, dearie. Those two are a league above the rest of us, I think. Best not to speculate.”

Newt found that he was rather inclined to agree. Without a further word, he started in on his tasks for the night, thinking, in the back of his mind, about Aziraphale and Crowley’s return with no small amount of anticipation.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, anyone who knows me would know that a John Wick AU for these two was inevitable. Stylish violence? Oof. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, and excited to post more for GO in the very near future! Comments would mean the world to me, I've never gotten feedback on my writing before!  
> I'm [@dustandhalos](https://twitter.com/dustandhalos) on Twitter, and [dustandhalos](https://dustandhalos.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, feel free to ping me there to chat, or find out about other stories I'm working on!


End file.
